The Resident Expert on Father Christmas
by nanniships
Summary: My Chelsie Christmas exchange offering for Voyicj, who said to go ahead and share it! It's my first attempt at Chelsie. Hope you all enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Merry Christmas!


**Merry Christmas everyone! Voyicj, being a sweet and generous person, wanted to share her Chelsie Christmas exchange story, so I went ahead. It's my first attempt at Chelsie, and it got away from me just a skoosh. But I hope you like it! **

The Resident Expert on Father Christmas

"Afternoon post, Mr. Carson!"

Charles Carson looked up, somewhat annoyed at having his concentration disturbed. But Andy's cheerful face and general air of helpfulness made him feel churlish, and he curbed his impulse to snap, contenting himself with simply heaving a sigh.

"Yes, thank you, Andrew. Just put it there," he ordered, pointing to the corner of his desk. As he bent back to his books, trying once again to make heads or tails of his underbutler's handwriting, he could see Andy carefully stacking the post, making minute adjustments to line the ends of the envelopes precisely. Remembering his lecture of three days prior to the male staff on the importance of seeing to the details of presentation, he groaned to himself. On the one hand, it was good to see that his words had been taken to heart. On the other, would the boy ever finish and get out of his pantry?

Andy finished his adjustments and stepped back to take one last look. Seeing a slight discrepancy, he leaned forward to tend to one last corner.

Mr. Carson slammed his hand down on the post, making Andy jump back with a startled yelp. A passing hall boy glanced in and hurried on, reeling from a glancing blow of Mr. Carson's eyebrows.

"Thank you, Andrew," Mr. Carson growled. Andy bobbed his head respectfully and exited as quickly as he could, bouncing off the door jam in his rush. He sped down the hall, rubbing his shoulder.

Mr. Carson winced at Andy's hurried and ungraceful exit. Shaking his head, he leaned back in the well worn leather of his chair and shut his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, and prayed that he could remain undisturbed for the next twenty minutes.

"If I were writing Father Christmas," he muttered, "I'd only ask for a headache powder, a stiff drink, and calligraphy lessons for Mr. Barrow."

"I don't claim to know what Father Christmas has planned, but I can certainly get the first two for you right now, whether you've been good or not." Elsie Hughes' amused brogue rang out from his doorway. She came the rest of the way into the pantry to stand by his desk, her eyes twinkling.

"What do mean, 'whether I've been good or not'?" he grunted, sounding more annoyed than he was. Mrs. Hughes rolled her eyes at his tone.

"Well, the younger staff are under the impression that you've been beating the footman," she replied mater-of factly. Mr. Carson sat up abruptly, gaping at her in astonishment. "That sort of thing wouldn't get you on the nice list."

"What? What?" he sputtered. "I've not been beating the footman! Who's been saying such things? Ridiculous!" He gazed at her with wounded dignity and an affronted pout.

"Now calm down, Mr Carson," she replied, trying to keep from smiling too broadly. "Only, one of the hall boys was passing by when Andy brought you the post and somehow got the impression that you struck him. When Andy walked through the servant's hall, complaining of a sore shoulder, the young lad was convinced you were reduced to keeping order with a shillelagh."

Mr. Carson gaped at her. "This is hardly an amusing circumstance, Mrs. Hughes. I cannot have the younger staff going about in terror of me."

"Believe me, Mr. Carson, I've set the matter straight. No one is going about in 'terror' of you. Greatest respect and mild trepidation, perhaps…"

"Mild trepidation?! Whatever is that supposed to…" he trailed off, seeing the mischievous sparkle in her eye and realizing he was being teased.

"Only those who haven't been here long enough to know what sort of soft heart lurks under that stern visage," she finished, patting him reassuringly on his shoulder. He shifted in his chair with a skeptical grunt and a grimace of the aforementioned visage.

"I'll just bring you a powder and a wee dram, shall I?" she said with a final squeeze of his shoulder. "I don't quite what to do about Mr. Barrows handwriting, though. I suspect it's as much out of Father Christmas' bailiwick as it is mine."

Mr. Carson watched her leave with an appreciative cast of his eye. Somehow, Elsie Hughes always had an answer for everything. Perhaps…perhaps this would be the year that he could ask her a question he should have asked long ago.

He was sorting idly through the post, glaring at the message from the family's supplier of sparkling wines that his Christmas order would not arrive in the timely manner he expected, when Mrs. Hughes returned with the promised powder, a glass of water and two fingers of an amber colored liquid in a tumbler.

"What's this, Mrs. Hughes?" he said with raised eyebrows. "Are you encouraging me to imbibe in the middle of the working day?" He took a cautious sniff of the contents and his eyebrows shot up even further as he recognized the very fined, aged whiskey from her private stores.

"If it'll save a footman further pain and suffering, then we'll all appreciate it," she replied tartly, rolling her "r"s more than strictly necessary. "And it'll save Father Christmas the trouble."

Mr. Carson snorted in reply, unable to hide the little smile that came to his lips when her brogue thickened. She made an impatient flapping motion with her hand at the powder and gave him a stern look until he picked up the package and tore it open, swirling it vigorously in the water to dissolve it.

"Go on then," she ordered as he hesitated bringing the cloudy liquid to his lips. With a grimace, he drank it all in one gulp, shuddering at the bitter taste. Mrs. Hughes smiled in satisfaction.

"I'll leave you to your work now, Mr. Carson, and get back to mine," she said, taking the glass and turning to leave.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hughes," he rumbled as he watched her go. She turned at the doorway.

"You're quite welcome, Mr. Carson."

"I know that taking care of the crabby Butler is not in your official job description," he replied. "And I do want you to know I'm appreciative." He raised the glass of whiskey in her direction and took a small sip, his eyes not leaving hers.

"Force of tradition and inclination has made it so, Mr. Carson," she said, flushing slightly. "After all…someone has to do it." With that, Mrs. Hughes left, shutting his pantry door softly to afford him some privacy.

Mr. Carson spent a few minutes comparing her graceful exit with Andy's lurching stagger, smiling mistily as the warmth of the whiskey flowed through him and the powder began to do its work. With a sigh, he turned his attention back to his mail, flicking through some obvious business letters until he came to the bottom one in the stack. Wrinkling his brow, he studied the handwriting, juvenile and wobbly, and the address:

_Mr. Charls Carsen, Buttler_

_Downten Abby_

_Yorkshir_

"It's rather a miracle it made it here at all," he muttered, impressed yet again with the Royal Mail. Turning the envelope over, he squinted at the return address:

_Miss. Maggie Bates_

_Cormorant Hotel_

_Scarborough_

"She must have had a little help with that part," he mused as a smile spread across his face. Wondering what could have possessed the youngest Bates, who was only six, to write to him, he eased his letter opener under the flap and gently ripped the side. A piece of paper, written front and back, with at least three different handwritings, fell out onto his desk. Still smiling, he unfolded the letter and began to read.

Mrs. Hughes was putting the finishing touches on her linen rota when she heard frantic footsteps approaching her door. Looking up in surprise as the door flew open, she beheld Mr. Carson, a thoroughly panicked look on his face, clutching a letter in his hand.

"Whatever is the matter?" she gasped, rising to her feet. Mr. Carson brandished the letter. "What is it?" she asked, her voice beginning to rise with anxiety. "Have you had bad news, Mr. Carson?"

He shook his head and drew in a breath. Taking his arm, she led him to an armchair and pushed his shoulder until he sat down. Or fell down, more like, making the legs of the chair squeak across the floor.

"It's not _bad_ news, Mrs. Hughes," he hastened to reassure her. "It's just… I don't…"

"What?" she asked, bewildered, wondering what could have gotten Mr. Carson in such a state.

"I'll just bet William Bates put her up to this," he said suddenly. Mrs. Hughes' confusion deepened. "That rascal!"

"Mr. Carson," she said firmly, "would you _please_ be so kind as to _tell_ me what is going on?"

He flapped the letter at her and she took it gingerly from his hand.

"Why…Maggie Bates wrote you a letter!" she exclaimed. He rolled his eyes at her statement of the obvious, and she ignored him. "My my…she must be growing up so fast." There was a hint of sadness in her voice.

"Just read it, Mrs. Hughes. Just read it."

With an exasperated look at him, she proceeded to do just that:

_Dere Mr. __Carsen__ Carson,_

_ How are you? We are all veri well __essep__ except for Eddie. He brok his f__inner__ finger trying to kech a fish with Papas fishpole. _

Elsie smiled at the corrections made by one of Maggie's bigger brothers.

"I'd guess it was Eddie helping her out, if it wasn't for the broken 'finner," she said proudly.

"Keep going!" Mr. Carson ordered, with an impatient gesture. With a frown and a shake of her head, she did.

_I am riting to ask you a __kwes__ a __qwestin__ question. William ses you are the most __onestist__ honest person in the hole __werld __world._

_ I wan to __no__ know is Father __Crismis__ Christmas reel? He has allways com to us befor but __markus__ Marcus hoo is a very bad boy ses he is not. And Eddie was __teesin__ teasing me and sed he is not reel allso but then sed he is._

"Oooh…that Eddie was always a scamp," Mrs. Hughes muttered darkly. Mr. Carson hid a grin behind his hand, remembering a certain run-in Mrs. Hughes had had with the younger Bates boy before the family moved to Scarborough. The sheets the lad had "borrowed" for his sail boat had been meant to be made into dusters, true. But in the end, they had to be thrown away, not even good for dusters, after Eddie Bates had finished with them. He watched Mrs. Hughes' face as she read the letter with obvious delight, lost for a moment in the curve of her cheek as she smiled.

_William ses he is and so do Mama and Papa. But __markus__ MARCUS ses they haf to say that or they wil be __ressed__ arrested. He is a very bad boy._

"That Marcus could use a turn under you as a Hall Boy," Mrs. Hughes commented sharply. "Telling a little girl there is no Father Christmas…I ask you." Mr. Carson grunted in agreement. Mrs. Hughes shook her head at the sheer cheek of the unknown, yet greatly disliked Marcus, and read the letter to its conclusion.

_Ples__ Please if you can tell me if Father __Crismis__ Christmas is reel. I shant rite to him untill you do._

_ Kindest Regards,_

_ Margaret Elizabeth Bates_

_ P.s.-Please tell Mrs. Huges I am sorry for the sheets. This is Eddie._

The close and postscript were obviously written in a two different hands, but Maggie signed her own name with so many flourishes, it was nearly illegible. Mrs. Hughes gazed at the letter in her hand as if it was something wonderfully precious, then looked at Mr. Carson in confusion.

"I still don't understand, Mr. Carson. This is a lovely letter, and quite the endorsement from William Bates, I must say. What's got you so bothered?"

Mr. Carson stared at her as if she was speaking sheer gibberish. "What's got me bothered, Mrs. Hughes? Whatever am I going to tell the child? She wrote to me because I am, and I quote, 'the most onistest person in the hole werld.' How do I answer this letter and remain _honest_ without breaking her heart? And I must do it _soon_, so she can write her letter to Father Christmas!"

"Well, Mr. Carson, I'm sure you'll think of something…" she began, breaking off as Mr. Carson rose suddenly from his chair and began to pace agitatedly.

"It is simply not fair that I have been put in this position, Mrs. Hughes. I'm sure that William Bates is having a laugh at my expense."

"I very much doubt that, Mr. Carson," Mrs. Hughes replied with an aggravated lilt, making Mr. Carson shiver in appreciation and wonder if she was doing it on purpose. "When little Maggie asked her brothers who she should trust for the right answer, why shouldn't they think of you?"

"I'm sure Mr. and Mrs. Bates don't know about this. They wouldn't have thought it appropriate at all," he grumbled.

"Perhaps not, Mr. Carson, but unless you intend to write to _them_, I should think this has landed squarely in your lap." At his wide eyed, startled look, Mrs. Hughes hastened to add: "And surely you don't intend to leave Maggie at the mercy of those naughty children and at risk of a broken heart, now do you?"

Mr. Carson lowered his brows and stared. "Don't think I don't know what you're trying to do, Mrs. Hughes."

Mrs. Hughes hid a smile. "I'm sure I don't know what you're referring to, Mr. Carson."

Mr. Carson sat heavily in the chair again with a groan. "But I don't know _what_ to say to her. She wants honesty, but I'd hate to be the one-"

"Mr. Carson, the lass wants reassurance," she interrupted. "And she wants it from someone she remembers fondly and whom her brothers and parents respect and trust." Her heart softened as Mr. Carson leaned his head on his hands. Biting her lip, she restrained herself from reaching out to push that errant curl from his forehead that had come loose from his pomade in his agitation.

"You'll do just fine, Mr. Carson, if you'll remember what's most important about Father Christmas and share that with her."

"And what might that be?" he asked in a hollow voice. "The flying sleigh? The chimney? The _ELVES_, for goodness sake?"

With an exasperated sigh, Mrs. Hughes finally gave in and lightly brushed his hair back. He looked up at her with surprise.

"No, Mr. Carson. However wonderful and magical those things might be, the _most_ important part of Father Christmas is giving to others with no expectation of a gift in return, just for the sheer joy of making others happy."

Mr. Carson stared at her in silence long enough for Mrs. Hughes to begin to feel uncomfortable. She stepped back and clasped her hands in front of her, worrying her lip and not meeting his eyes.

"You'd know all about that, wouldn't you Mrs. Hughes," he finally said. She darted a quick look at him, perplexed by the expression on his face. It was almost… tender. Cow-eyed, she thought, in wonder.

"I don't suppose I know all about anything, Mr. Carson," she stammered, "but I do know we've both got work needing to be done and _you've_ got a letter to write."

Mr. Carson stood reluctantly and nodded, his face resuming his usual professional solemnity. "You're quite right, Mrs. Hughes. I'll be off then."

Mrs. Hughes watched him leave without a backwards glance and felt unsteady. Worried that perhaps she'd been too forward, she dove back into her paperwork with great energy, trying not to spare him another thought until tea time.

Mr. Carson went about his tasks with his usual efficiency and effectiveness. No one watching him would ever guess that his mind was completely preoccupied with a six year old's angst and the disturbing effect Mrs. Hughes had on him. A few may have had their suspicions that something was amiss though, especially when he tore strips off of Mr. Barrow, who had been poking cruel fun at one of the younger maids when she had expressed a wish for Father Christmas to drop some lip paint into her stocking. But, after his blistering rebuke to the effect that Mr. Barrow was not the arbiter of anyone's beliefs nor had he any room to speak of others' appearances, no one was about to say anything at all.

Especially when he called Mr. Barrow _Marcus, _by mistake….

An uneasy silence hung over the servants' hall that afternoon. Still, everyone attended to their tasks. Some subtle questioning by Mrs. Hughes led her to the cause of the atmosphere, causing her to shake her head and mutter to herself about "that daft man."

Mr. Carson remained in his office for the rest of the day. Mrs. Patmore took him some tea and sandwiches, and emerged from the butler's pantry muttering darkly about being dismissed as if she were no more than a boot black.

"Somethings up with him," she announced to Mrs. Hughes, shaking a wooden spoon with a vehemence that promised no good for Mr. Carson's pudding that night. "Sitting at his desk, scowling and growling at a piece of paper, like he was tasked with adding to Holy Writ."

"I'm sure he's just busy, Mrs. Patmore," Mrs. Hughes tried to soothe her, feeling a bit guilty for the mood Mr. Carson was in.

"We're _all_ busy!" snapped Mrs. Patmore. "The next time he's too _busy_ to show his face at tea, he can take himself to the kitchen and make his own sandwiches!"

"I'll not argue with you about that," Mrs. Hughes said with a sigh. "But he's got a… difficult task on his plate, and he's determined to do his best at it. You know how he gets…"

"We all know how he gets," Mrs. Patmore said with a snort, "Himself makes sure we all do."

With a dismissive shake of her head, Mrs. Patmore stomped off to make her scullery maid miserable. Mrs. Hughes stood outside Mr. Carson's door, wondering if she should, perhaps, offer him a little help. She raised her hand to knock when she heard a string of frustrated muttering and the sound of paper being wadded up and hurled through the air. Wincing, she turned to go, figuring he would be best left to himself in this mood. Three steps down the hall though, she turned back, and with a determined glint in her eye, rapped briskly on the door. Not waiting for an invitation, she pushed in.

"Really, Mr. Carson," she said, unfazed by his glare, "are you determined to destroy everyone's holiday spirit?"

"I am not responsible for other people's holiday spirit, Mrs. Hughes," he informed her sternly.

"Maybe not, but you're certainly responsible for bringing such an atmosphere downstairs that I was compelled to allow the understaff to hang the mistletoe a full week early to try to restore some harmony and good will."

"As bad as that, am I?"

"Or worse. And I feel I ought to warn you that your dismissal of Mrs. Patmore when she was kind enough to bring you your tea has put your Christmas cake in jeopardy of being quite dry and tasteless."

Mrs. Hughes took pity on him as he glared miserably at the blank sheet of paper on his desk. Suppressing the urge to take a peek at his previous efforts, she picked up the scraps from the floor and deposited them into the bin by his desk.

"Mr. Carson," she said, as she tapped the blank paper with her finger, "if Maggie were here right now, asking you the same question in person, what would you say to her?"

"I don't know," Mr. Carson mused with knitted brow.

"Well I do. You'd dry her tears and offer her a peppermint. Then you'd tell her not to listen to such nonsense. Then you'd explain why Father Christmas _must_ be real." Mr. Carson looked skeptically at her. "And you wouldn't give it a second thought," she finished.

"You're not writing His Royal Highness, the King of England, Charles. Just a little girl who misses you." She looked kindly at him, not noticing his reaction at her use of his christian name. "Just say on the paper what you'd say if she was right here."

Mr. Carson was too overwhelmed at being called "Charles" in that enchanting brogue to do more than nod. Satisfied that she had put him on the right track, Mrs. Hughes made her way to the door of his office. Before she left, she looked back to see him staring unfocused at the empty chair in front of his desk, smiling at the vision in his mind.

She had no idea that it was her rather than Maggie who brought the expression to his face. But she nodded in satisfaction when he picked up his pen and began to write industriously.

It wasn't like Mr. Carson to be in a hurry. Organized, methodical- he was rarely in a rush. However, on that evening, hall boys, footmen, and maids alike pressed hurriedly to the sides of the hallways as Mr. Carson, straightening his livery and puffing slightly, emerged from his pantry _very_ late indeed. Mrs. Hughes watched in amused disbelief as he swept past her with no acknowledgement other than a twitch of his eyebrows, and pounded up the stairs to the dining room with as much dignity as he could muster.

After silencing the whispers and mutters in his wake with a scowl and sharply rapped out orders, Mrs. Hughes returned to her parlor to complete her work for the day, twitchy with anticipation of seeing him later and, perhaps, getting a read of his response to Maggie.

"Daft man," she said to herself, "to be so worried about it. But surely, it couldn't have taken him all afternoon to compose a letter to a child…"

With Mr. Carson's mysterious behavior on her mind, Mrs. Hughes had difficulty focusing on her tasks. She was greatly tempted to drop into his pantry and take a quick look at his efforts from the afternoon, and might have done so, if Andy hadn't rushed through the hall at that moment, red faced and dripping with gravy.

Helping Andy get cleaned up and advising him on how to return to Mr. Carson's good graces took long enough for her to put it out of her mind. And then there were drinks in the drawing room as the family made merry somewhat later than usual, the servant's supper, and various staff to shoo off to bed. They nearly collided in the hall outside the kitchen.

"I suppose it might be a bit late for a drink, Mrs. Hughes," Mr. Carson began as he reached out his hand to steady her on her feet. "But I would very much appreciate your opinion on a certain matter."

"It may be rather late, Mr. Carson, but I've been on tenterhooks all afternoon concerning that certain matter," she replied with a twinkle in her eye. Mrs. Patmore, who had been puttering ill temperedly by the ovens, stuck her head around the door with great interest. Mrs. Hughes ignored her.

"Please go on in then, and I'll bring the wine," he invited, with a flourish of his arm as if he was about to announce her into the drawing room for tea and conversation with the Dowager.

Mrs. Hughes went straight to Mr. Carson's desk. There in the center was the result of an afternoon's work-an unsealed envelope addressed to _Miss. Margaret E. Bates_ in Mr. Carson's strong hand. Reluctant to wait any longer, Mrs. Hughes shot a glance at the door, then slid the paper out onto the desk.

_Dear Margaret,_

_ I was quite surprised to receive your letter, but very glad to hear that everyone is well. Perhaps your brother__'s mishap with the fishing pole will be a lesson to him. But as it's Edward, I rather doubt it._

Mrs. Hughes covered her mouth to keep from snickering too loudly. Her eyes flew on down the page.

_While I appreciate William's endorsement as the most honest man in the world, I cannot claim to be any more or less honest than any man who tries to walk through life with his best face forward. However, I will attempt to answer your question with all truthfulness, as it is a very important one._

_ I must agree that this Marcus is, indeed, a very bad boy. You are right not to trust him on this matter. As for your brother__'s teasing, I'm sure he is sorry for making you doubt what you know to be the truth._

_ Such a bright and good girl as yourself should have no doubt that Father Christmas is very real, and I am exceedingly sorry that anyone has made you doubt this. _

_ You see, Margaret, Christmas is a very special time of the year. There are many days in the year, as I__'m sure you've learned at school, and it can be very difficult to remember that we are to care for one another and be good to others on each of these days. There will be days when we don't remember this at all. And other days when we remember that we should, but do not take care to do so. I find myself forgetting this often._

Mrs. Hughes was so captivated by what she was reading that didn't notice Mr. Carson standing in the doorway, juggling the wine bottle and two glasses. He watched her eyes soften and shine and couldn't have made a move to stop her if his life depended upon it.

_ Christmas is a time when we make a special effort to care for and be particularly good to one another. It is when we celebrate the gift our Good Lord has given us because He loves us. What helps us remember is receiving a gift, just because we are loved. For when we know we are loved, it is easier for us to remember to love each other._

_ This is why Father Christmas gives a gift to every child- to help every child remember that he or she is loved, no matter who they may be. Father Christmas is real, and will always be real so long as there are children in the world who are loved._

_ There is much magic in Father Christmas that is beyond what I know. But this I do know: As long as there is love given that demands nothing in return, Father Christmas will be real. Perhaps children who do not believe that Father Christmas is real are in need of more love then they get._

_ I am enclosing several peppermints for you and your brothers. And I have also enclosed some for Marcus, if you should choose to give them to him._

_ Give my regards to your mother and father. _

_ Happy Christmas!_

_ Most Sincerely,_

_ Mr. Charles E. Carson, Butler_

Mrs. Hughes laid the letter down on his desk and sighed. With a gentle clearing of his throat, Mr. Carson announced his presence in the doorway. He placed the glasses and bottle down to fish in his pocket for a handkerchief, which he held out to Mrs. Hughes.

"Oh..thank you, . Best I don't get any tear stains on your lovely letter," she said, dabbing her eyes and smiling at him.

"So…you think it will do?" he asked gruffly. "I fear it became a bit…sentimental."

"Of course it will do, Mr. Carson," she said, rolling her eyes and wiping her cheeks. "It's a beautiful letter. I don't know what you were so worried about."

"I was fortunate to be able to consult with the resident expert on Father Christmas, Mrs. Hughes, or I'd have been all at sea, I assure you." Taking her arm, he gently escorted her to her seat and poured the wine.

"You did wonderfully, Mr. Carson, and I'm sure Maggie will cherish the letter." She sipped her wine, looking speculatively at him over the rim of the glass.

"I hope it arrives in time," he commented.

"I expect it will, so long as it goes out in the morning post," she replied absently. There was a comfortable silence between them, then Mr. Carson sat up straighter, as if he had come to a decision.

"I am very grateful for all your assistance, Mrs. Hughes. But lest you think I am utterly incompetent, I feel I must assure you that it did not take me all afternoon to complete the letter to Maggie. I indulged in other correspondence as well, which actually took me a great deal longer to complete."

"And will that go out in the morning post as well?"

"Actually," he said, "it would save me a stamp if I could just hand deliver it to you now." Her eyes lit up in surprise as made his way to his desk and lifted his ledger, revealing an envelope.

"You spent most of the afternoon writing a letter to me?" she asked as she reached out her hand for the envelope. "Why on earth didn't you just come down to my parlor and tell me whatever is in this?"

Mr. Carson looked away in discomfort for a moment, wondering how to tell her that, as she had suggested, the words came easier when he imagined her standing in front of him, and he wasn't faced with that muzzy sensation that came over him when he looked into her eyes and made his words all come out…wrong. If they came out at all.

"Well," Mrs. Hughes said, finally breaking the uneasy silence, "I'll look forward to reading this." At least, she hoped it was something to look forward to. "Shall I take it with me now?"

"You're not leaving now, are you?" he asked hastily, and more gruffly than he intended.

"Mr. Carson," she said, her eyes snapping, "you've given me a letter that you spent an entire afternoon writing. I assumed you wished me to read it now."

"Yes…well. But you haven't finished your wine…"

Confused, and starting to get angry, Mrs. Hughes faced him with her hands on her hips and her lips in a tight line. Well aware of the signs of an impending storm, Mr. Carson grew redder in the face than could be attributed to the wine and tugged his suddenly unreasonably tight collar as he tried to think of something-anything-to say that wouldn't make this worse. His fingers itched to snatch the envelope out of her hands.

The silence hovered between them until Mr. Carson gave kind of a strangled gasp and began to stammer out his goodnights. With an impatient huff, Mrs. Hughes, responded in kind and turned to go, but stopped at the miserable expression on his face.

"Mr. Carson," she said as gently as she could manage, "I'm going to go and read my letter. We can talk about it in the morning, if there is anything to talk about. Now I'll say goodnight."

With that, Mrs. Hughes went straight to her parlor and sat down at the desk. She turned the envelope over in her hands, noticing that it was addressed to _Elsie_. Not likely about household matters, then. Looking once towards the door, as if she half expected him to be standing there, she took a deep breath and let the sheet of paper fall to the surface of her desk, her eyes widening as they fell on the salutation:

_My dear Elsie,_

_ It has becomes painfully obvious that, however much I might like to speak to you about a personal matter, I find myself unable to do so while in your presence. I do not know if that is due to cowardice or simply an inability to find the words when your eyes meet mine. Whatever the case may be, it has prevented me from speaking to you for far too long._

_ I took your advice concerning the letter to Maggie Bates. This should not surprise you. As you may already have gathered, I take your advice on most things. You were right-it was easier to find the words when I imagined her to be in front of me. I wondered then, if it might be easier to find the words if I wrote you a letter and imagined that you were in front of me. Only you will be able to judge the success of this effort._

_ During our discussion about Father Christmas, you said something that struck a chord in me; that the spirit of Christmas is about giving with no expectation of anything in return. It occurred to me that you have been doing this for the duration of our long association, and I was ashamed that it has taken me so long to acknowledge this. And also, that I have been unable to tell you how very much I would like to give you in return._

Mrs. Hughes' heart was pounding almost painfully in her chest as she read. It seemed, that in the entire world, nothing existed at that moment but her and the letter she held in trembling hands.

_I felt that, perhaps, it was time that I took some courage from your example, and give to you without expectation of anything in return. But I find that I am not so courageous as all that. I cannot help but hope that my feelings are reciprocated._

_ As you have made mention many times, things have changed. And in spite of my reluctance and resistance, I too have changed. I find that the life of unwavering service to the family and to Downton, to the exclusion of any other happiness, is no longer entirely satisfactory. _

_ My heart is restless, Elsie, and I believe it will only find rest in you. Please do not think this is a sudden or recent development. For many years, as we have pulled together in harness as colleagues and friends, I have wanted to tell you - to show you somehow. But I denied that part of me and instead found peace of a sort in order, stability, propriety, and pride of position. And, being the stubborn fool you so often tell me I am, I convinced myself that it was enough, and all I could reasonably hope for._

_ It is not, and never has been, enough. Every year, we have exchanged gifts at Christmas. Thoughtful gifts of needful things. Every year, I hoped some measure of how I feel - the esteem in which I hold you - would be expressed through them. And every year, I knew it wasn__'t enough._

_ I__'m sure if you WERE standing in front of me now, you'd be telling me to just get on with it. And so I shall._

_ I love you, Elsie Hughes. I cannot gift wrap it. And it may not be a gift you wish to be saddled with. But if I can muster up the courage this year and give you this letter, know that with it is my heart, to do with as you will. That cottage we own - I hope to share it with you. Only God knows how much life I have left, but now __you__ know, as well as God, that I wish to spend what is left with you._

_ I may not be the most observant man in the world, but there are times when I can believe that you might love me as well. I pray that this is so, and that I have not left it too long. But believe me, however you respond to this letter, I do love you. And my only regret is that I did not tell you sooner._

_ Happy Christmas, Elsie._

_ Yours always,_

_ Charles_

Mrs. Hughes sat abruptly into her chair as if her legs had been cut out from under her. She stared at the letter in shock, tears of joy falling heedlessly to blot the paper and making Mr. Carson's earnest words shimmer in the light. Releasing a deep breath, she leaned back in her chair and tried to make her thoughts come together.

"My only regret is that you didn't tell me sooner too, you lovely, daft man," she murmured into the silence of the room. Whatever would she _say_ to him tomorrow? How in the world was she supposed to respond to such a declaration, however much she had longed for years to hear it? For a moment, she contemplated writing her own letter in response, smiling as she envisioned the two of them exchanging heartfelt letters while never actually talking - becoming more passionate on paper and unable to look at each other without risking a flood of improper emotions and high spirits at the breakfast table.

No, no letter.

There was really only one way to respond to such a sentiment, and it wasn't through the Royal Mail. Shaking with nerves, but determined, Mrs, Hughes stood, straightened her skirts, aligned her keys at her side, and opened the door to her office. She expected to find his door shut and locked and him retired for the night to either sleep peacefully with the relief of finally sharing his heart, or to toss and turn miserably with dread at awaiting her response.

She did not expect to find his solid bulk standing at near attention just outside the door to her office, with a look on his face somewhere between anticipation and dread. She startled and stifled a shriek of surprise under her palm. His hand grasped her elbow to steady her.

"My apologies, Mrs. Hughes," he rumbled. "I didn't mean to startle you."

She tipped her head back to stare at him in disbelief. He dropped his hand from her elbow and stood as if awaiting a report concerning the dusting schedule of the guest rooms. All the words she had gathered in her head to tell him when they met again flew completely out of her head.

"I should think," she gasped, "that after that letter, you might at least call me Elsie when frightening the daylights out of me."

The corner of his mouth turned up slightly. "Of course, Elsie." They looked at each other in the dim light of the corridor for a long moment, neither wishing to be the next one to break the silence until Mrs. Hughes couldn't take it any longer.

"This isn't the morning, Charles. I'd have thought you'd have gone up-"

"Yes, yes," Mr. Carson interrupted. "I, erm, should have realized you wouldn't want to talk right away." He took a step back and began to turn towards the stairs to the servant's rooms. "I'll just-"

Mrs. Hughes reached out her hand to grasp his upper arm and turn him back towards her. "If you'd let me finish…" she began with an edge in her voice from her nerves. He stood in front of her, eyes pleading for permission to escape.

"I was going to say that I was glad you hadn't gone up." She slid her hand down his arm, intending on releasing him. Instead, she curled her fingers around his and stared down at their hands. "I've…I've never received a letter like that before in my life."

Mr. Carson stared down at the top of her head and his fingers twitched in hers. "I've never written a letter like that before in my life," he said hoarsely.

She looked back up at his face. "Mr. Carson-" She interrupted herself with a roll of her eyes and a shake of her head. "Charles… why now?" She squeezed his hand reassuringly as his brows knit in concern.

"I'm…I'm not sure." She smiled encouragingly at him. "I think that all this fuss about Father Christmas today made me realize that I am not a child. I cannot simply wait and hope for what I want. Although things would have been much easier if he had just left you in my stocking…" He trailed off as Mrs. Hughes snorted in laughter.

"I don't know how, but you made that sound a little risque'."

"And if I did?" he replied, flushing pink but smiling.

"I doubt your stockings would fit me, Charles."

"Well," he said with a raised eyebrow, "we won't know until we try."

"The cheek!" Mrs. Hughes laughed with delight as Mr. Carson took her other hand in his and brought both her hands to his lips.

"Does this mean you'll accept my gift, Elsie? And that you'll give me yours in return?"

"Would I be standing here in the corridor at one in the morning flirting shamelessly with you if I didn't?" She gently removed her hands from his and slid her arms around his neck. He wrapped his hands around her waist and pulled her closer, bending his head for a gentle kiss that deepened and consumed them they parted for breath, he leaned his forehead against hers and smiled into her eyes.

"That was better than anything Father Christmas ever brought me," he whispered.

"Well then, Happy Christmas, Charles," she replied, leaning up for another kiss. "I do wonder what's going to turn up in my stocking this year."

"Hmmm…hopefully me," he teased, earning himself a slap on the chest and a mock glare.

"You're getting silly, so it must be past time to turn in," she scolded. He nodded and offered her his arm. She accepted, then stopped and turned towards her office. "Just a moment, Charles."

She hurried through the door as he watched from the corridor, and was back at his side almost immediately. She had his letter in her hand.

"I'm not about to leave this down here," she proclaimed, waving it at him. "I may never get a letter so wonderful as this again. So I must make sure I keep it safe and close to my heart."

"I may find it in me to write you another one," Mr. Carson protested, taking her arm and pulling her to his side.

"And I look forward to reading another one. But I don't think I shall ever receive a letter that means more to me than this one, Charles."

"Shall I address the next one to Mrs. Carson, Resident Expert on Father Christmas, at the cottage on Larch Lane?" he asked as they paused at the foot of the stairs.

"Only if you're writing it to me," she replied before kissing him once again.


End file.
